Sara stared down at her hands. The sticky, red trails almost seemed to move as she watched them.
"So much blood," she murmured. Shouldn't it be hot? Or at least warm? But her hands were cold, even with the blood on them. Sara turned her hands over. The blood was everywhere. It had left her hands and moved towards her elbows. It had dripped onto the floor.
No, dripped was the wrong word. Dripping was slow, gentle, painless. The blood had poured from Andy's body, even as she had tried to stop it.
The blood had been warm then, she thought. It had been hot, and pulsing, and alive under her hands. It had a mind of its own, ready to escape the confines of a body, ready to see the world.
She had tried. She did everything she knew how to do. Except gloves, came the thought from the back of her mind. She should have put on gloves before touching blood. That's what they had taught in her first aid class, so many years ago.
There was no time to find gloves, though. Sara didn't know if she even owned any. The only thing she could do was try to cover the gaping wound as Andy grew pale. And scream. She vaguely remembered screaming.
"Miss?" The deep voice made Sara jump. She looked up from her hands into a the eyes of someone who had seen this before. "Please, come with me. We need to get you cleaned up."
"It's Andy's blood," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I should keep it for him."
"Andy doesn't need that blood, sweetheart," the man said, sympathy written across his face. "Come on. We'll get you taken care of."
"It's Andy's blood," Sara repeated, looking back down at her hands as the man helped her up, wrapping the blanket more securely around her. "I should keep Andy's blood." It was easier to look at the blood than to remember how the light had faded from his eyes.
She could swear she still saw the blood moving.
Showing posts with label five minute fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label five minute fiction. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Ice Cream Sundays
Charlie waited patiently by the front door. She knew that today was Sunday, and she knew that meant a special treat.
Every week, Charlie waited impatiently for Sunday to arrive. She made it through the endlessly boring work days, and while she enjoyed playing in the park on Saturdays, that was nothing compared to what happened Sunday.
Sunday was special, because Sunday was ice cream day. Every Sunday, Charlie and Sam would walk down to the ice cream store. It was just around the corner, but they only went there on Sundays. They would share a large vanilla cone - never anything more adventurous than that. But there was no need for adventure - Charlie loved vanilla ice cream, and she was pretty sure that Sam did, too.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, Sam emerged from her bedroom.
"Come on, Charlie," she said, picking up a bright pink leash and fastening it to Charlie's collar. "Let's go for ice cream."
Every week, Charlie waited impatiently for Sunday to arrive. She made it through the endlessly boring work days, and while she enjoyed playing in the park on Saturdays, that was nothing compared to what happened Sunday.
Sunday was special, because Sunday was ice cream day. Every Sunday, Charlie and Sam would walk down to the ice cream store. It was just around the corner, but they only went there on Sundays. They would share a large vanilla cone - never anything more adventurous than that. But there was no need for adventure - Charlie loved vanilla ice cream, and she was pretty sure that Sam did, too.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, Sam emerged from her bedroom.
"Come on, Charlie," she said, picking up a bright pink leash and fastening it to Charlie's collar. "Let's go for ice cream."
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Puppy Love
It was quiet. Very quiet.
Samantha looked up from her computer. There was no movement in the room. She looked around - it was quiet and still. This was a bad sign. She stood up and moved away from her desk. Not a sound.
"Shit," she muttered. The pillows on the couch were unmolested. The blanket on the floor was abandoned.
"Casey?" Samantha called out. Nothing. Her pulse picked up as she walked down the hall. She was terrified about what she might find around the corner, but she kept going. It was better to know than to imagine, she told herself. As she approached the bedroom door, Samantha strained, trying to hear anything that was going on inside. Still, she heard nothing.
Samantha reached out and pushed the door fully open. There lay Casey, curled up on Samantha's pillows, sound asleep. She let out a sigh of relief. Casey opened one eye, looked at her human, then closed her eyes again, sleeping as only a puppy can.
Samantha backed out of the room, returning to her computer, oblivious of the pile of 'killed' socks under her bed.
Samantha looked up from her computer. There was no movement in the room. She looked around - it was quiet and still. This was a bad sign. She stood up and moved away from her desk. Not a sound.
"Shit," she muttered. The pillows on the couch were unmolested. The blanket on the floor was abandoned.
"Casey?" Samantha called out. Nothing. Her pulse picked up as she walked down the hall. She was terrified about what she might find around the corner, but she kept going. It was better to know than to imagine, she told herself. As she approached the bedroom door, Samantha strained, trying to hear anything that was going on inside. Still, she heard nothing.
Samantha reached out and pushed the door fully open. There lay Casey, curled up on Samantha's pillows, sound asleep. She let out a sigh of relief. Casey opened one eye, looked at her human, then closed her eyes again, sleeping as only a puppy can.
Samantha backed out of the room, returning to her computer, oblivious of the pile of 'killed' socks under her bed.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Mondays
Before he even opened his eyes, Sean knew it was a Monday. Not just because yesterday had been Sunday, but because it felt like a Monday. No, not just a Monday... a MONDAY.
There is a substantial difference between a Monday and a MONDAY, Sean thought to himself, his eyes still squeezed shut. A Monday was just another day, albeit a bit suckier than the others because it involved going back to work. A MONDAY, though... the air seemed different on a MONDAY. The possibility of disaster seemed almost palpable.
It had been several weeks since Sean had experienced a MONDAY. Last week, he had enjoyed an uneventful Monday, and the week before had actually been rather pleasant, with a dinner party and relaxed conversation. He supposed that he was due for one...
With a sigh, Sean opened his eyes. The early morning light was brightening his bedroom, and despite the feeling of MONDAY in the air, everything seemed normal. He sat up, stretching and yawning. As he swung his legs down to stand up, Sean was greeted by an audible 'squelch.'
"Oh, for crying in the sink," Sean muttered, looking down to see the large wet patch on his carpet. His dog's tail stuck out from her hiding spot under the bed. "Yeah, definitely a MONDAY."
There is a substantial difference between a Monday and a MONDAY, Sean thought to himself, his eyes still squeezed shut. A Monday was just another day, albeit a bit suckier than the others because it involved going back to work. A MONDAY, though... the air seemed different on a MONDAY. The possibility of disaster seemed almost palpable.
It had been several weeks since Sean had experienced a MONDAY. Last week, he had enjoyed an uneventful Monday, and the week before had actually been rather pleasant, with a dinner party and relaxed conversation. He supposed that he was due for one...
With a sigh, Sean opened his eyes. The early morning light was brightening his bedroom, and despite the feeling of MONDAY in the air, everything seemed normal. He sat up, stretching and yawning. As he swung his legs down to stand up, Sean was greeted by an audible 'squelch.'
"Oh, for crying in the sink," Sean muttered, looking down to see the large wet patch on his carpet. His dog's tail stuck out from her hiding spot under the bed. "Yeah, definitely a MONDAY."
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Favourite things
The silence weighed on Sarah's ears, the lack of noise feeling unexpectedly loud. She could hear her heart beating. Her breath was raspy and too fast. She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself.
It didn't work. It was too dark. It was too quiet. It was too small.
Her breathing sped up again, and Sarah could feel her heart racing. She knew she needed to calm down, but it was much easier said than done. What would her mother tell her to do?
"Raindrops on roses..." she began, her voice barely a whisper. "Whiskers on kittens..."
The room was still tiny and dark. The bonds on her wrists still dug into her flesh. But at least it wasn't so damned quiet.
"Bright copper kettles, and warm woolen mittens..." Sarah's voice wavered, but it was marginally louder than she had started. "Warm woolen mittens... Mittens... Shit." What were the words? Why couldn't she remember the song?
Sarah squeezed her eyes shut against the darkness, trying to keep from crying. "Her name was Lola. She was a showgirl." Somehow, these words flowed better. Barry Manilow was easing her panic. "With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there."
Ignoring the dark, the silence, Sarah pretended that she was on stage, her voice growing stronger with each line, until she was belting out the chorus. "At the Copa! Copacabana!"
"Shut up!" The shout, and accompanying thump on the door, startled Sarah into silence. Her eyes opened in the dark, and she felt the fear creeping in once more. If she couldn't stop it...
"Her name was Lola..." Sarah began again, her voice low, hoping that whoever it was outside the door wouldn't hear her.
It didn't work. It was too dark. It was too quiet. It was too small.
Her breathing sped up again, and Sarah could feel her heart racing. She knew she needed to calm down, but it was much easier said than done. What would her mother tell her to do?
"Raindrops on roses..." she began, her voice barely a whisper. "Whiskers on kittens..."
The room was still tiny and dark. The bonds on her wrists still dug into her flesh. But at least it wasn't so damned quiet.
"Bright copper kettles, and warm woolen mittens..." Sarah's voice wavered, but it was marginally louder than she had started. "Warm woolen mittens... Mittens... Shit." What were the words? Why couldn't she remember the song?
Sarah squeezed her eyes shut against the darkness, trying to keep from crying. "Her name was Lola. She was a showgirl." Somehow, these words flowed better. Barry Manilow was easing her panic. "With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there."
Ignoring the dark, the silence, Sarah pretended that she was on stage, her voice growing stronger with each line, until she was belting out the chorus. "At the Copa! Copacabana!"
"Shut up!" The shout, and accompanying thump on the door, startled Sarah into silence. Her eyes opened in the dark, and she felt the fear creeping in once more. If she couldn't stop it...
"Her name was Lola..." Sarah began again, her voice low, hoping that whoever it was outside the door wouldn't hear her.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Nice? Yeah, not so much...
"Freaking soda industry," the small figure muttered in the darkness. She crept down the dark alley, her wings occasionally sparkling in a stray shaft of light. She was hunched over, trying to be inconspicuous. Her dress used to be white, but it was dingy and torn. Her once radiant golden ringlets hung limply from her head and she scowled.
She paused under the light of a streetlamp, pulling something out from a pouch at her waist. Quickly, she began to whittle a point on the end of a toothbrush. Once satisfied with the sharpness of the point, she put away her knife and resumed her slink towards the large truck at the end of the alley.
"*$#^% Coke and Pepsi," she muttered again. "I'll show you, freakin' jerks."
With a swift motion, she punctured the front tire of the truck with the sharpened toothbrush. She moved on to the next one, then the others. Stealing away in the dark, the figure finally smiled as she muttered to herself, "That'll teach you to mess with innocent kids' teeth. The Tooth Fairy always gets the last laugh."
She paused under the light of a streetlamp, pulling something out from a pouch at her waist. Quickly, she began to whittle a point on the end of a toothbrush. Once satisfied with the sharpness of the point, she put away her knife and resumed her slink towards the large truck at the end of the alley.
"*$#^% Coke and Pepsi," she muttered again. "I'll show you, freakin' jerks."
With a swift motion, she punctured the front tire of the truck with the sharpened toothbrush. She moved on to the next one, then the others. Stealing away in the dark, the figure finally smiled as she muttered to herself, "That'll teach you to mess with innocent kids' teeth. The Tooth Fairy always gets the last laugh."
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Falling down
If she had been left to describe the incident herself, Zoe would have been remarkably concerned with the small, unimportant details. She would have described the cold, unfeeling cinder blocks that made up the tight, gray walls of the hallway. She would have told you about the bright, fluorescent lightbulbs that crackled and flickered as she walked past them. There would have been excessive pontification about the rough-hewn stone floors, which were actually made of relatively smooth pieces of granite.
Zoe most likely would have told you that she was talking to Albert in great seriousness about important matters - perhaps it was her upcoming appearance at the United Nations to present her proposal to eliminate world hunger, or maybe her plans to meet with the World Health Organization to tell them how they could stop the AIDS epidemic. Perhaps she was sharing advice on how to best deal with friends who could not make their own decisions, or maybe she was simply sharing the secret of life. In reality, she was probably telling stories about some famous person that she saw once and then claimed to be friends with.
Regardless of what Zoe had actually been talking about, it is simply important to know that she had been talking to Albert, and had been concentrating on him to the point of distraction. Had she been paying more attention, Zoe might have realized that the hallway had turned into a stairway. However, her attention was elsewhere, and rather than purposefully stepping down, Zoe stumbled and began a tumble.
Once more, if Zoe had been able to describe it herself, she would have remarked on the quality of workmanship apparent in the stairs, the crisp edges, the cold stone. Zoe, however, was not able to describe it. As she lay in a broken, bloody heap at the bottom of the stairs, it was clear that she would not describe anything ever again.
Albert, when questioned about the stairs later, simply replied, "There were 37 of them."
Zoe most likely would have told you that she was talking to Albert in great seriousness about important matters - perhaps it was her upcoming appearance at the United Nations to present her proposal to eliminate world hunger, or maybe her plans to meet with the World Health Organization to tell them how they could stop the AIDS epidemic. Perhaps she was sharing advice on how to best deal with friends who could not make their own decisions, or maybe she was simply sharing the secret of life. In reality, she was probably telling stories about some famous person that she saw once and then claimed to be friends with.
Regardless of what Zoe had actually been talking about, it is simply important to know that she had been talking to Albert, and had been concentrating on him to the point of distraction. Had she been paying more attention, Zoe might have realized that the hallway had turned into a stairway. However, her attention was elsewhere, and rather than purposefully stepping down, Zoe stumbled and began a tumble.
Once more, if Zoe had been able to describe it herself, she would have remarked on the quality of workmanship apparent in the stairs, the crisp edges, the cold stone. Zoe, however, was not able to describe it. As she lay in a broken, bloody heap at the bottom of the stairs, it was clear that she would not describe anything ever again.
Albert, when questioned about the stairs later, simply replied, "There were 37 of them."
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Something in the water
Kelly sighed softly as she wiggled her feet. Her toes stuck out of the water at the far end of the bathtub, but she could barely make out the shape of her feet, much less her legs. The water was cloudy, a shade of white that reminded her of a horror movie she had seen as a child.
Fortunately, Kelly knew that she wasn't in some psycho horror flick - she was just in agony. Yesterday, while she was out hiking in the woods near her house, she had stumbled into a patch of poison ivy. She had, quite literally, stumbled into it as she tripped over a root that protruded above the surface of the path. If she were being honest with herself, Kelly had to admit that going out hiking alone was one of the more stupid ideas she had ever had. After all, she couldn't think of anyone more likely to do something like fall into a patch of poison ivy.
There was nothing to be done about it now, though. While she wouldn't try hiking out there alone again, Kelly was stuck with the itchy consequences of her actions. She had slathered on calamine lotion as soon as she got home, completely forgetting everything that she had been taught about poison ivy. The calamine lotion had helped a bit, but by neglecting to wash off the area first, Kelly had managed to spread the rash over even more of her legs.
So tonight, she was taking her mother's advice. Kelly had drawn a tepid bath, and dumped a liberal helping of oatmeal into the water. The cool water had felt very pleasant against her legs, and the weird, gooey consistency of the oatmeal-water was soothing. Sure, it made the water all murky and creepy, but it felt so good that Kelly didn't mind. Besides, who was going to see her in a bathtub of porridge?
Fortunately, Kelly knew that she wasn't in some psycho horror flick - she was just in agony. Yesterday, while she was out hiking in the woods near her house, she had stumbled into a patch of poison ivy. She had, quite literally, stumbled into it as she tripped over a root that protruded above the surface of the path. If she were being honest with herself, Kelly had to admit that going out hiking alone was one of the more stupid ideas she had ever had. After all, she couldn't think of anyone more likely to do something like fall into a patch of poison ivy.
There was nothing to be done about it now, though. While she wouldn't try hiking out there alone again, Kelly was stuck with the itchy consequences of her actions. She had slathered on calamine lotion as soon as she got home, completely forgetting everything that she had been taught about poison ivy. The calamine lotion had helped a bit, but by neglecting to wash off the area first, Kelly had managed to spread the rash over even more of her legs.
So tonight, she was taking her mother's advice. Kelly had drawn a tepid bath, and dumped a liberal helping of oatmeal into the water. The cool water had felt very pleasant against her legs, and the weird, gooey consistency of the oatmeal-water was soothing. Sure, it made the water all murky and creepy, but it felt so good that Kelly didn't mind. Besides, who was going to see her in a bathtub of porridge?
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
For Tanya. Because she asked for it.
Callie yanked the shoe off of her foot and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying thunk, leaving a mark. She pulled off the second show and threw that one, too. She scowled at the shoes where they lay on the floor, rubbing her feet.
"The things I do for fashion," she mumbled. Her feet were sore. Very sore. There were big red divots in the back of her heels from where the shoes had dug in for the last several hours. Her big toes had weird marks on the outsides, and all of her other toes were nearly flattened from the way they had been crushed together in the tiny space.
Slowly, with the help of a peppermint-scented lotion, Callie's feet began to forgive her. She wiggled her toes, wrinkling her nose at the slight ache that remained. She stood up, grimacing as the soles of her feet readjusted to standing flat, rather than in three-inch heels. With her feet now feeling better, Callie finally shrugged off the dress she had worn that night, tossing it into the hamper. She slipped into an old Van Halen t-shirt and rummaged in her dresser until she found a pair of fuzzy socks.
Finally feeling more like herself, Callie crossed the room to the shoes that still lay on the floor. She picked them up, smiling at the softness of the leather. "I forgive you," she said, shaking her head. "You're just too cute to give away." Handling the shoes much more delicately than she had when she chucked them across the room, Callie put them away in her closet.
She flipped off the lights and crossed to her bed, crawling between the covers with a sigh. Her eyes closed, and her dreams began to fill with cute shoes and a night full of dancing.
"The things I do for fashion," she mumbled. Her feet were sore. Very sore. There were big red divots in the back of her heels from where the shoes had dug in for the last several hours. Her big toes had weird marks on the outsides, and all of her other toes were nearly flattened from the way they had been crushed together in the tiny space.
Slowly, with the help of a peppermint-scented lotion, Callie's feet began to forgive her. She wiggled her toes, wrinkling her nose at the slight ache that remained. She stood up, grimacing as the soles of her feet readjusted to standing flat, rather than in three-inch heels. With her feet now feeling better, Callie finally shrugged off the dress she had worn that night, tossing it into the hamper. She slipped into an old Van Halen t-shirt and rummaged in her dresser until she found a pair of fuzzy socks.
Finally feeling more like herself, Callie crossed the room to the shoes that still lay on the floor. She picked them up, smiling at the softness of the leather. "I forgive you," she said, shaking her head. "You're just too cute to give away." Handling the shoes much more delicately than she had when she chucked them across the room, Callie put them away in her closet.
She flipped off the lights and crossed to her bed, crawling between the covers with a sigh. Her eyes closed, and her dreams began to fill with cute shoes and a night full of dancing.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Hugs & Kisses
"'Hugs & Kisses'." Ally read the words on the back of the small envelope out loud. "Hugs and kisses?"
"Let me see that," Jessica said, taking the envelope from Ally. "'Hugs & Kisses.' Huh. Wonder why that's on the outside?"
"Hey!" Ally protested. "I haven't even opened the envelope yet!"
"And you're taking way too long," Jessica said, opening it herself as Ally made a grab for it. "'Dear Ally,'" she started reading.
"Give me that!" Ally lunged at Jessica again, finally wrestling the little card from her friend's hand. "Look, now it's wrinkled."
"You should have opened it faster," Jessica said, grinning.
Ally glared at her, but it quickly dissolved into a smile. After all, it was pretty damn hard to glare when you had just received a bouquet of flowers. She cleared her throat. "'Dear Ally'," she began. "'I just wanted to brighten up your office a bit. I know flowers make you smile, and your smile lights up the room. Sam.'"
"Aw!" Jessica squealed. "He's so sweet!"
Ally grinned. "I know. Think I should keep him?"
"Let me see that," Jessica said, taking the envelope from Ally. "'Hugs & Kisses.' Huh. Wonder why that's on the outside?"
"Hey!" Ally protested. "I haven't even opened the envelope yet!"
"And you're taking way too long," Jessica said, opening it herself as Ally made a grab for it. "'Dear Ally,'" she started reading.
"Give me that!" Ally lunged at Jessica again, finally wrestling the little card from her friend's hand. "Look, now it's wrinkled."
"You should have opened it faster," Jessica said, grinning.
Ally glared at her, but it quickly dissolved into a smile. After all, it was pretty damn hard to glare when you had just received a bouquet of flowers. She cleared her throat. "'Dear Ally'," she began. "'I just wanted to brighten up your office a bit. I know flowers make you smile, and your smile lights up the room. Sam.'"
"Aw!" Jessica squealed. "He's so sweet!"
Ally grinned. "I know. Think I should keep him?"
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Fiction, because I said I would.
Carrie was wet. Soggy, dripping, uncomfortably wet. Her shoes squelched. Her sweater clung to her body. Her jeans were plastered to her legs. The single braid of long, dark hair dripped like a faucet. It was awesome.
She grinned, looking over at her friends. They, too, looked like wet dogs, and more than a little pleased with themselves.
"Here you go," said the responsible one, Sarah, as she handed out towels. Carrie took hers and wiped the water from her face, but the smile remained.
"We should totally do that again," Carrie said, kicking off her shoes. "That was amazing."
"Definitely," Aaron agreed. "And it was the perfect weather for it, too."
Sarah rolled her eyes.
"And maybe we can talk Sarah into joining us next time," Carrie added.
"I don't think so," Sarah replied. "Jumping into a pool, fully clothed, is not my idea of a good time."
Aaron looked at Carrie, wiggling his eyebrows. "Maybe we should prove her wrong."
"No way!" Sarah shrieked, running across the yard as the other two started after her. Luckily, she wasn't hindered by wet clothes, and made it into the house before they caught up, locking the door behind her. "Nice try," she said through the glass.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
A Personal Hell
Jake cringed as he heard the music. He didn't recognize the singer, but he recognized the song - barely. Slowly, he opened his eyes to see a young girl, clad in outrageous colours, singing a Spice Girls song. Badly.
The brightness of the girl's outfit made him close his eyes again.
"Open your eyes."
Jake's eyes flew open at the sound of the deep voice. He looked around, but there was no one there but the girl. She had stopped singing, and was staring at him. Jake tried to squint, hoping that might dim the brightness of the colours all around him. Sunny yellows, Barbie pink, seafoam green, and a multitude of other shades were splashed on the walls of the small room that he was laying it. His eyes burned at the sight. It was as if a five-year-old girl had been set loose in a paint store.
Wait, why was he laying down? Jake sat up, looking around again. He was in this small, brightly coloured room, alone except for the little blonde girl.
"Where the hell am I?" he muttered.
"Seems you've answered that question yourself." The deep voice echoed in the room as the girl moved her mouth.
"Excuse me?"
"Welcome to hell," the girl replied, the deep voice clearly coming from her this time.
"Hell?" Jake repeated. In a flash, it came to him - the car wreck, the unspeakable pain, then the numbness. "Wait, I'm dead?"
"Yes."
"Well, shit."
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A Bad Idea
Franchise knew it was a bad idea. It was a very bad idea. Probably.
He stared at his hands as memories flooded his mind, unbidden. Callie as a teenager, her hair pulled back and her face fresh and clean. They had spent hours together every day during the summer she had turned sixteen. It didn't matter what his friends thought - she was a lot cooler than they gave her credit for.
Years later, Callie in a white dress, walking down the aisle. Her hair and makeup were elaborately done, but it couldn't hide the glow she had. Franchise knew that it truly was the happiest day of her life, and he was happy, too.
Still later, the same girl a few years older, glowing again, but for a different reason. Her hands would rest on her abdomen all of the time, feeling the life growing inside her. The extra weight never looked bad on Callie, even after she gave birth to her beautiful little girl.
Franchise focused on the happy memories, trying to convince himself that it might not be such a bad idea after all.
"I'm gonna ask you one last time, Franchise," the officer said, slapping his hand down on the table. "Was Callie Abrams with you on the night of September 17?"
Franchise looked up at the other man, but he didn't see a police officer. Instead, he saw Callie again. This time, her beautiful face was marred by an angry purple bruise, and tears streamed down her face.
"My sister was with me," Franchise lied. "There's no way she could have killed her husband that night."
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Always be prepared
Jane Spencer was nothing if not prepared.
When she was thinking about having sex with Brad, she made a list of pros and cons, and considered the list for weeks. When they finally went all the way, she made sure that she was on the pill and that he was using condoms with spermicidal lubricants. She was prepared.
Even now, she was prepared. On the bathroom counter, lined up in an orderly fashion, were four different pregnancy tests. Beside them, a stopwatch waited. Jane straightened the tests once more, then gave a satisfied sniff. It was time.
One by one, Jane used all four tests. It was awkward, to be honest, but there was something about the methodical use and replacement of each test on the counter that made Jane feel better. It was orderly. It made sense. And the repetition decreased the chances of a false reading.
The stopwatch continued merrily on its way, counting the seconds that passed. Jane busied herself with arranging her makeup on the bathroom counter, ignoring the tests that waited. Once the stopwatch reached the appropriate time, she reached for the first test with an inexplicably shaking hand.
Two purple lines. Two pink lines. A blue plus sign. A digital readout of 'Pregnant.'
Jane's hand shook more violently with each test.
Somehow, she wasn't prepared for this.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Five-Minute Fiction
Tonight's prompt is from First Line Fiction, Contest #7, "She's a local. - Shiloh Walker".
She's a local. I've seen her around before. She comes in once or twice a month, usually with a group of friends. I rarely see her by herself, but tonight is different. Tonight, she's alone. From across the room, I watch her. She's sitting at a table in the corner, nursing her drink. She looks miserable. I can see that her eyes are red, like she's spent her evening crying. I want to go over and comfort her, but I can't work up the courage.
So she sits there, alone with her drink. And I watch her, and wish that I could be stronger, braver, better.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
End of the World
This week's prompt is from The Imagination Prompt Generator: "On the way to work today, I noticed..."
It was a normal day. Well, it seemed like a normal day when I woke up. I hit the snooze button a few times, then dragged myself into the shower. The smell of citrus helped me join the land of the living, one of the few promises my shampoo kept. By the time I got out of the shower, I had to rush to get dressed so I wouldn't be late.
I grabbed a breakfast bar on the way out, figuring I could probably manage to eat it and drive at the same time. I pulled out of my driveway and took the back roads that lead to the interstate. I managed to miss the usual traffic jam at the on-ramp, and for a moment, thought that I might actually make it to work on time!
Then I noticed something odd. Very odd. Extremely odd.
I was the only person on the interstate.
I checked the clock - 8:12 am. It was definitely the middle of the morning rush hour, but there was not another vehicle to be found. I slowed down and glanced over the guard rail. The streets below were deserted, too. I had no idea what to do next - should I keep going? Should I turn around? I was in the middle of the highway, and despite the fact that there was no one else around, I couldn't bring myself to just turn around. After all, what if suddenly traffic reappeared?
By the time I reached my office, I was in a panic. The parking lot was empty, and I still had not seen another car. My heart pounded and my hands were shaking as I unlocked the front door. I reached to turn on the lights, half-expecting them to be out. They came on, though, illuminating the reception area. I made a beeline for the computer, switching it on. I pulled up my internet browser, but I got an error message telling me that the page could not be displayed. I tried a dozen different websites, but got the same message every time.
I felt sick to my stomach. What was going on? I hurried back to the staff room and flipped on the television. Nothing. The thing turned on, but every station I tried was just a black screen. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, even as I felt a shiver run down my spine. Did I miss the memo about the end of the world?
Suddenly, I heard a familiar song. My cell phone was ringing in the front part of the office. I ran back up front, praying that whoever it was would not hang up before I could get there. The phone was wedged into the bottom of my purse, and I scrambled to free it, finally upending the entire thing, the contents scattering across the floor.
"Hello? Hello!" I cried out as I flipped it open. I heard nothing. I looked at the phone and saw "1 Missed Call" displayed on the screen. Hot tears slid down my cheeks as I sank to the floor. Sitting among the lipglosses and tissues, there was nothing else to do. I pressed a few buttons, trying to see who had called me, but it was listed as 'Restricted.'
So I cried, because what else do you do when you can't seem to find another human being?
As I took a deep breath, I realized what I should do next. Flipping my phone open again, I dialed a familiar number.
"You've reached John and Maria. We can't make it to the phone right now, but if you'll wait for the beep, you can leave your name, number, and any messages that you want to, and we'll get back to you as soon as we can. Thank you."
The sound of my mom's familiar voice nearly made me dissolve into tears again, but I managed to get myself under control enough to leave a message.
"Hi Mom, hi Dad. It's Sarah. I just wanted to hear your voices. I love you. Bye."
With a shuddering sigh, I hung up the phone and looked around. I had no idea what else to do.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Prompted Piece: The First Line
Prompt from http://www.thefirstline.com/ - use the first line! This is a literary magazine, but I don't plan to submit this piece... I don't really like it, but hey, it got me writing. If I worked a little more on it, I might be able to do something with it.
Paul and Miriam Kaufman met the old-fashioned way. Drunk.
In November, Paul had gone out with his buddies for a bachelor party. As could be expected, there was alcohol involved. A lot of alcohol.
Miriam, meanwhile, was trying to sympathize with a recently-dumped friend. She had spent the first part of the night sober, patting her friend on the shoulder and telling her that men were scum. As the night progressed, however, Miriam began to get bored with listening to her friend sob. She ordered one drink, then another. Then another. After a little while, her friend didn't seem nearly as irritating.
"Dude, she's hot!" Paul tried to whisper to one of his friends as he spotted Miriam sitting at the bar. Unfortunately, with the amount of alcohol he had consumed, his attempt at a whisper came out as more of a shout. Miriam looked around, trying to see where the voice was coming from. Paul, showing the kind of brilliance that can only come with the death of too many brain cells, dropped to a crouch beside his friend. Then, showing the kind of coordination that comes along with that sort of brilliance, he continued to drop, landing on the floor and spilling beer on himself.
"He fell over!" Miriam exclaimed, trying to stand up to see what had happened. In the process, she knocked over her own drink, finally making her friend laugh. Mumbling something about drying off, Miriam stumbled off towards the restrooms.
"You're hot!"
Miriam turned around when she heard the comment, but her momentum carried her a bit too far and she fell against Paul. He caught her, although not without stumbling a bit. "Hi," he said, smiling at her.
"Hi," she replied, smiling back up at him. That was all it took.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
A story to be told
*This is from the IME*
Once upon a time, there was a story that wanted to be told. It was a picky story, though, and it didn't want to be told by just anyone. It wanted a good story-teller. It wanted someone who would make it sound fun and exciting! It wanted someone who would be able to share it with the whole world! So the story floated around, watching for that special someone, the someone to bring it to life. It found adventure writers who might make it sound fun and exciting. It found popular writers who might be able to share it with the whole world. Still, the story wasn't happy with any of these choices...
So the story kept on looking, until one day, if cound a special someone. She wasn't a famous novelist. She wasn't a journalist. She had never taken an English course after high school. None of that mattered, though, because the story knew she would be the perfect one to tell it. So the story stopped floating around, and climbed into the special someone's head. Her eyes lit up. Picking up her needles and a new ball of yarn, the special someone began knitting the story. It was now a very happy story.
Once upon a time, there was a story that wanted to be told. It was a picky story, though, and it didn't want to be told by just anyone. It wanted a good story-teller. It wanted someone who would make it sound fun and exciting! It wanted someone who would be able to share it with the whole world! So the story floated around, watching for that special someone, the someone to bring it to life. It found adventure writers who might make it sound fun and exciting. It found popular writers who might be able to share it with the whole world. Still, the story wasn't happy with any of these choices...
So the story kept on looking, until one day, if cound a special someone. She wasn't a famous novelist. She wasn't a journalist. She had never taken an English course after high school. None of that mattered, though, because the story knew she would be the perfect one to tell it. So the story stopped floating around, and climbed into the special someone's head. Her eyes lit up. Picking up her needles and a new ball of yarn, the special someone began knitting the story. It was now a very happy story.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
A bit of romance
(Because I'm a girl, and sometimes, I have to remind myself of that)
The sunlight came from behind him, almost blinding her. He stepped to the side, casting a shadow on her face as he grinned. "Better?"
"Better," she affirmed, her voice soft as she smiled up at him. His features were harder to make out at this angle, but she knew those blue eyes well, and they could make her melt.
"Good." He studied her face as she studied his, and she could feel that familiar sensation in her chest - a tingling, fuzzy feeling that started below her breastbone and radiated upwards, until even her teeth tingled. She knew what was going to happen next, and she found herself holding her breath. He leaned forward slightly, and she found herself rising to her tiptoes to meet him halfway. Their lips met, and for a moment, the whole world stopped spinning.
All of those moments earlier in the day, when it seemed that time was conspiring against them, making an hour seem like minutes, were balanced out in that instant. Nothing else mattered - she was no longer aware of the traffic alongside them, the pedestrians giving them sidelong glances. She was simply in his arms, kissing him. Her arms wrapped around his waist of their own accord, and his returned the favor. The world melted away, until it was just the two of them, wrapped in a warm ball of sunlight.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Unraveled
Anna slid the knitting needle out of the stitches, watching as the yarn spread out, no longer constrained by her hands. Setting the needle aside, Anna took a deep breath, then pulled on the free end of her yarn. One stitch popped away, then another, and another. Gently, she wrapped the yarn around her fingers and began winding it into a ball.
As she tugged on the yarn, slowly ripping out the stitches, Anna thought about all of the time she had spent - and perhaps wasted - on this failed blanket. Row after row disappeared as the ball grew larger. Anna thought of the first day she had bought the yarn. Her best friend had just announced her pregnancy, and it seemed like a lovely idea to knit her a baby blanket. Somewhere along the way, though, her friend commented on the colours of the nursery, and Anna realized that the blanket wouldn't look right, so she put it away in favour of a new ball of yarn. Months later, a co-worker was pregnant, and Anna picked up the blanket again. The woman quit, though, so there was no baby shower, and Anna put it away once more.
Years later, Anna's life was more than complicated, and she pulled out the knitting, hoping that it might calm her nerves, but she found even knitting couldn't soothe her soul, so she put it away again, hoping that she hadn't left any bad karma attached to a baby item.
Finally, she had decided to clear out all of her old projects, and came across the blanket. Anna really did make an effort to finish it - she found a second ball of yarn, and even started to use it, but she simply had no attachment to the project. It was boring. It was time-consuming. It wasn't anything special. So, in an effort to clear up her clutter, Anna decided to rip it out. Perhaps she'd start again... perhaps she'd use the yarn in another project.
A tear slipped down her cheek as she tucked in the end of the yarn, the ball in her lap and the blanket only a memory. For something she didn't really like, it was awfully sad to give it up.
As she tugged on the yarn, slowly ripping out the stitches, Anna thought about all of the time she had spent - and perhaps wasted - on this failed blanket. Row after row disappeared as the ball grew larger. Anna thought of the first day she had bought the yarn. Her best friend had just announced her pregnancy, and it seemed like a lovely idea to knit her a baby blanket. Somewhere along the way, though, her friend commented on the colours of the nursery, and Anna realized that the blanket wouldn't look right, so she put it away in favour of a new ball of yarn. Months later, a co-worker was pregnant, and Anna picked up the blanket again. The woman quit, though, so there was no baby shower, and Anna put it away once more.
Years later, Anna's life was more than complicated, and she pulled out the knitting, hoping that it might calm her nerves, but she found even knitting couldn't soothe her soul, so she put it away again, hoping that she hadn't left any bad karma attached to a baby item.
Finally, she had decided to clear out all of her old projects, and came across the blanket. Anna really did make an effort to finish it - she found a second ball of yarn, and even started to use it, but she simply had no attachment to the project. It was boring. It was time-consuming. It wasn't anything special. So, in an effort to clear up her clutter, Anna decided to rip it out. Perhaps she'd start again... perhaps she'd use the yarn in another project.
A tear slipped down her cheek as she tucked in the end of the yarn, the ball in her lap and the blanket only a memory. For something she didn't really like, it was awfully sad to give it up.
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